Funny Stories at Night
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock is babysitting Claire Watson, John and Mary's little girl, when she tells him he looks sad sometimes. Does she have a cure? Sherlolly


They definitely made an odd looking couple as they walked through the park. The man was tall, slender, impeccably dressed with a flowing dark coat and a cashmere scarf. The child, a little girl of four, wore patched jeans and a wool cap pulled low over her blond curls, with a colorful scarf tied loosely around her neck, the ends following along behind her as she ran ahead of her companion.

"Look, Uncle Shrok, Christmas roses!" the child laughed with delight as she pointed at the array of white, bowl-shaped blooms.

"Use the correct name, please, Claire," the tall man said with an indulgent smile.

The little girl scrunched up her nose before saying, hesitantly, "Helleborus niger?"

"Brilliant! Although how you can manage to get all that out, and still call me Uncle Shrok is beyond me. Makes me sound a little too much like an ogre from a Disney film!"

"I love Shrek! And I love you, Uncle Shrok. And sometimes you remind me of an ogre!"

"You're not the first to say so, child. And I don't imagine you'll be the last," Sherlock Holmes said with some resignation. He watched as she skipped away once again. Mary and John Watson were busy this Saturday afternoon, John legitimately, having been unexpectedly called to the hospital, while Mary had abdicated her responsibilities as a parent to go on a shopping spree with her friend Molly Hooper. Leaving young Claire in the care of her doting godfather. Not that he was complaining.

The girl reversed her direction, returning to her uncle with a concerned look on her face. "Uncle Shrok, sometimes you look kinda sad."

"Not sad, surely. I've been told can be grumpy, rather. Do I look grumpy to you?" Sherlock actually smiled down at the child, something which he really never had to force when in her presence.

"You don't look grumpy now, Uncle Shrok, but sometimes you are. Especially when Uncle 'Croft is around. But sometimes you look sad, too."

"Have you thought of a cure for that, Claire? Is that what this about? You'd like to engage in yet another tickle battle, eh!" Sherlock said, reaching for the squealing child. He was thinking of someone else, though, who could see when he was sad. He picked the smallest Watson up in his arms, holding her as he strode through the park, hoping she would drop the subject. But his hope was in vain.

"Uncle Shrok, you need someone to tell you funny stories at night!"

"What?"

"Funny stories! The kind that make you giggle. I can hear Mummy giggle sometimes, late at night, when her and Daddy are in their room. And Daddy laughs, sometimes. But mostly he kind of growls. One time I went into their room, and I thought Daddy was tickling Mummy. But Mummy said he had told her a funny story. And Mummy and Daddy never look sad! So maybe you need someone to tell you funny stories at night. Then you wouldn't look sad, ever!"

Sherlock had to laugh at the child's simple cure for his perceived condition. "I'm not sad, Claire," the detective said with a bit of a snicker.

But the child frowned at her adored godfather. "Mummy said it's not nice to tell fibs!"

"She would know, I suppose!" her retorted with a grimace.

"I bet Aunt Molly knows lots of funny stories," Claire said rather seriously. "I bet she could tell you some really funny ones at night, Uncle Shrok. She could stay at your house, and tell funny stories all night!"

"But Aunt Molly has a boyfriend, doesn't she? Maybe she's too busy telling him funny stories at night." When he said this, Claire noticed, once again, that he seemed a little sad, and she knew she was right to try and help.

"Aunt Molly only sees her boyfriends for breakfast."

If Molly was having breakfast regularly with a boyfriend, this brought up all sort of connotations to the detective about why this was happening. Sleepovers? He heaved a sigh, and Claire once again thought how sad he looked.

"How do you know Aunt Molly has breakfast with her boyfriend, Claire?"

" 'Cause Mummy said they were cereal boyfriends!" Claire said proudly. "And everybody knows that you only eat cereal at breakfast!"

Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, found himself laughing quietly at the impeccable logic of his four year old godchild. Cereal boyfriends, indeed. Looking back over the past several years, Sherlock reviewed the roster of Dr. Hooper's "cereal" boyfriends. A banker, handsome enough, Sherlock thought, but dull as dishwater. A musician, who wrote a song for her, but whose relationship ended on a discordant note. A chef who left a bad taste in Sherlock's mouth. Then, her latest, a doctor, like Molly herself, but lacking her compassion. A veritable parade of the losers, who, fortunately, he believed, had indeed lost Molly's interest in the end.

The detective once again deposited his godchild on the park path, and watched her scamper away, her interest now taken up by a squirrel instead of her godfather's solitary life. It wasn't the first time someone had suggested he needed a change in his life. Mummy Holmes had been nagging him for years, Papa had merely patted him on the back consolingly. Mary Watson had often informed him that if a former assassin could settle down to bear children and bake brownies, a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath was certainly capable of doing the same. And they all had the same candidate in mind. And, lately, he had to admit, so had he. He was still thinking along these lines when his mobile signalled an incoming text message.

HAVE RETURNED FROM SHOPPING SPREE AND AM CURIOUS ABOUT WHEREABOUTS OF SPAWN - MARY

OFFSPRING IS CURRENTLY STALKING SQUIRREL. HAVE YOU A RECIPE FOR WILD GAME? - SHERLOCK

ONE SQUIRREL WOULD NOT BE ENOUGH TO FEED FAMILY. UNLESS SHE CAN BRING DOWN AN ENTIRE SCURRY, TELL HER TO LEAVE IT IN PEACE - MARY

SURPRISED YOU KNEW THE COLLECTIVE TERM FOR A GROUP OF THESE FURRY RODENTS! KUDOS! - SHERLOCK

I LOOKED IT UP TO IMPRESS YOU. YOU MAY BRING THE GREAT BLONDE HUNTER HOME WHENEVER YOU LIKE - MARY

IF MOLLY THERE? - SHERLOCK

YES. WHY? - MARY

ON OUR WAY! - SHERLOCK

Sherlock called to the intrepid huntress, but receiving no answer, eventually had to follow her into the undergrowth and pull her out. "Time to head for home, my little squirrel whisperer! Mummy's waiting, and we have a stop to make on the way." Claire squealed with delight as he swung her up on his shoulders, and walked quickly from the park.

It was only a few moments later when the two entered the Watson home to find Mary and Molly sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a cup of tea and discussing their day's purchases. Sherlock shrugged off his coat in the sitting room, and helped the child out of her outdoor gear, unwinding the long scarf carefully from her neck, before joining the women in the kitchen for a cuppa.

"John not back yet, then, Mary?"

"Not yet, Sherlock, but soon, he says. What's do you have there?"

The detective reached into the grocery sack and pulled out a box of Weetabix, placing it on the table in front of his pathologist. "Well, Molly, what do you think?"

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

"Young Claire gave me the entire rundown on your 'cereal' boyfriends, Dr. Hooper."

"What?!"

"It seems her mother, here, has described your 'cereal' boyfriends to our godchild. Supposedly around the same time she explained her nocturnal bouts of giggles in the bedroom as the result of John telling her 'funny stories'. So, Claire has decided that it would be a good idea if you are the one to tell me some of these 'funny stories' at night, and vice versa. She doesn't want me to look sad anymore, it seems."

Mary was looking a bit embarrassed, and more than a bit red, so the detective took pity on her. "No need to blush, Mrs Watson. We all know how fond John is of his, uh, 'funny stories'. But from Claire's recounting of the many occasions on which she has heard these giggles coming from your boudoir, I assume he has quite a repertoire!"

The youngster in question, having been listening to the entire conversation, quickly put in, "Tell us the one Daddy told you last night, Mummy. It must have been very funny…"

"Hush, Claire! Maybe I'll tell you later…"

"Hopefully when she's well past puberty, and can understand the full…"

"Shut up, Sherlock!", Mary and Molly said in unison, but through a combined fit of giggles!

But Claire was not to be deterred. "So we stopped at the shop and Uncle Shrok bought some cereal for Aunt Molly, so he can be a cereal boyfriend!"

"Well, I though it only fair that, if Molly is going to tell me some funny stories at night, I should supply the breakfast. Don't you agree?" Sherlock looked at his pathologist with a somewhat questioning smile on his face.

"Sherlock, are you sure about this? I have rather a vivid imagination, you know. I wouldn't want to tell just a story or two. I'm sure that I can come up with lots and lots of funny stories. Enough to last…" Molly was trying to speak in euphemisms the child would not understand.

"For a lifetime, I'm sure! And I can't wait to hear each and every one." Sherlock had grabbed hold of her hand under the kitchen table, not wanting to expose young Claire to the rather more explicit display of affection he had been considering. They were still holding hands when John Watson joined them moments later. Noticing the Weetabix, he grabbed the box, saying, "I could use a bit of this at the moment. Couldn't stop for lunch, so I'm feeling a bit peckish…"

John was completely taken aback by his daughters reaction. "No! That's for Uncle Shrok and Aunt Molly! For breakfast!" He was even more surprised when his best friend rose from his seat, grabbed the Weetabix from his hands, and headed for the door, dragging Molly along with him. "Yes, John, that's just for Molly and I. We intend to work up quite an appetite, after all."

"What?..." John spoke to the empty space vacated by his friends, before turning to his wife, who innocently said, "Evidently, they've got quite a lot of stories to tell, John. You know," she winked at their daughter, "The kind that make you giggle in the night!" And John Watson himself suffered a bout of laughter as he, finally, deduced the kind of stories to which his wife was referring.


End file.
